A Weary Secret
by beachglass5387
Summary: For Thomas and Jimmy, it isn't a question of will they or won't they. They will. The only question is how.
1. Chapter 1

"_Secrets, silent, stony sit in the dark palaces of both our hearts: secrets weary of their tyranny: tyrants willing to be dethroned." – James Joyce_

**Chapter One: Jimmy**

Jimmy has never been much for fighting. The whole thing is stupid, really. Only, when Alfred had said…He's no idea why he got so angry all of a sudden. It's not like him to hit someone. Especially not someone bigger. For all Alfred's gangly, he _is_ huge. So what if he said something he shouldn't have? One minute, Alfred had been joking about the new hall boy and then he'd said something about Mr. Barrow and the new hall boy and, before Jimmy knew what he was about, his knuckles were crashing into the side of Alfred's face.

Alfred had just stood there for a minute, but then he'd charged Jimmy and the pair of them had crashed to the floor. Jimmy is dimly aware that Mrs. Patmore is yelling something in the background – she always is – but he has finally managed to shove Alfred off of his chest and has a chance to get another swing in and he can't make out what she is saying. Jimmy's knuckles are throbbing and the whole left side of his face feels like it is going to explode.

Someone reaches for Jimmy and Jimmy's elbow flies to clip the interloper before he knows what is happening. Oh God, don't let it be Mr. Carson, he thinks fleetingly before he feels a hand clamps down on the back on his neck and another wrenches his arm backward.

The other man – Mr. Barrow, he realizes with surprise – hauls him up off of Alfred and throws him back against the wall of the kitchen. Jimmy's shoulders slam against the plaster and the wind is knocked out of him for the second time that day. Funny, he's never considered how much stronger Thomas is than he is. Jimmy pushes the thought out of his mind (as he does with all thoughts that begin with "Thomas" rather than "Mr. Barrow").He wishes it had been Mr. Carson. God, why did Mr. Barrow have to be here for this?

Alfred surges up and straightens his uniform. His face is red but, Jimmy notes angrily, he doesn't look nearly as bad as Jimmy expects he does. "What the-" Alfred starts, glaring at Jimmy.

Mrs. Patmore is staring at Jimmy too, open mouthed. "My word," she says, exchanging a look with Mr. Barrow. "I never." It's not what you think, Jimmy thinks, willing her to understand. Except it is, he realizes. It is what she thinks.

"Thank you, Mr. Barrow," Mr. Carson says, now standing in the doorway with Mrs. Hughes at his elbow. "Get to my office, the pair of you!" He continues, rounding, red-faced on Jimmy and Alfred. "I have never, in all my time at this house, witnessed anything so disgraceful. Brawling in the kitchen after dinner? I would not have thought it possible!"

As Jimmy begins to shuffle towards the butler's pantry, he turns to see Mrs. Hughes reaching to squeeze Mr. Barrow's arm and handing him her handkerchief. Jimmy feels his stomach jolt as he notices that there a trickle of blood running down from a small spilt in Mr. Barrow's lip where Jimmy had elbowed him.

"Here, Thomas, you're bleeding," Mrs. Hughes says.

"It's-" Mr. Barrow says, sounding irritated.

"Mr. Barrow now, I know," Mrs. Hughes says kindly (because she knows Thomas isn't really irritated with her, Jimmy thinks).

"James!" Mr. Carson says, and Jimmy walks faster. His head is spinning from pain and fear. It will be all over Downton Abbey before the morning. Mrs. Patmore has a mouth on her and he's sure the story of what Alfred said to make Jimmy hit him will be all over the estate by the morning. Right. That's him done for, then.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Thomas**

Sometimes, Thomas thinks the universe must owe him something. His love for men, his working class origins, his constant proximity to and total distance from a better life, the war, Miss O'Brien, and, most recently, a fucking split lip. It isn't fair. It isn't right. If this were a novel, he thinks, there would have to be a turn; the chapter would have to end and a new one begin. Well, he thinks, glancing at the book by his bed, maybe not if the novel were by Mrs. Wharton. The house of bloody, fucking mirth, that's what Downtown Abbey is, and he's the chief fool.

He throws himself down onto his bed. His tiny bed; a child's bed he thinks, a hospital bed. Of course, the Crawleys probably think he should be grateful even to have a bed. Time was they probably made all of their servants sleep on pallets on the kitchen floor. He doesn't like Branson, but sometimes he thinks he had the right idea in the old days. Set fire to the lot of them and run for dear life. Of course, then he'd be out of a job. Maybe the world will be different one day, he thinks, but how bloody long would that take?

He sighs and lights a cigarette. He used to steal wine when he felt this way. Used to creep down into the cellar, nick a bottle or two, and drink it by himself late at night. A small rebellion and something to numb the pain into the bargain. He's not as brave as he used to be, though. Back then, he only thought he had bad luck. Now he knows it for sure.

He reaches up to the split in his lip. It's not bad, really. Mrs. Hughes said she thought it would disappear in no time, though why he should listen to her he doesn't know. He likes Mrs. Hughes well enough though, these days. He remembers how kind she'd been to him when he thought he'd be dismissed without a reference. She takes in strays, Mrs. Hughes, he thinks. When he'd managed to stop crying – God, how he hates to remember it – he'd asked her why she was being nice to him. "You don't even like me," he'd said.

"Oh, Thomas," she'd sighed. "I might if you'd ever allow it."

He takes another drag on his cigarette. He's tried to allow it, sort of. He sees now that, most days, Mrs. Hughes isn't any more impressed with the Crawleys than he is, and that helps. He smirks. He'd thought strict Mrs. Hughes would be appalled by what he is but, once he'd thought it through, he'd realized that Mrs. Hughes had probably always been over the moon to have at least one footman she didn't have to worry about with maids.

Not like Jimmy and Alfred. Fighting about Ivy, no doubt, Thomas thinks. It's stupid. Jimmy may not be…may not be like Thomas, but any idiot can see he's not really interested in Ivy. Any idiot but Alfred and, Thomas supposes, Ivy. There'll be an end to it now, though, Thomas thinks. If Thomas knows Mrs. Patmore, her ability to keep her thoughts to herself likely imploded with the soufflé that had been ruined by the fight. She'll have sat Ivy down and told her what's what. All bluster, Mrs. Patmore, Thomas thinks, but she doesn't miss a trick.

She'd known about Thomas from the first moment he'd set foot in the kitchen looking to find Mr. Carson to enquire about the open second footman position, he'd wager. On his third day at Downton, he'd overheard Mrs. Hughes telling Mrs. Patmore that she was worried about the new second footman.

"He's too handsome for his own good, if you ask me," Mrs. Hughes had said. Thomas had smirked at that. "The house maids won't talk about anything else. And the kitchen maids-"

"Don't you worry about the kitchen maids," Mrs. Patmore had said. "They're mine to worry about. And if I were you, I wouldn't worry about the house maids neither. The only thing they're in danger of with that one is looking very foolish."

Thomas had had to leave the doorway before he'd heard the rest of the conversation, but he doubted Mrs. Patmore had thought there was nothing to worry about because she'd formed a high opinion of his character. It had worried him for a time, back then, but nothing had ever come of it and he'd more or less forgotten that Mrs. Patmore likely knew him for what he was.

Mrs. Hughes worries about the maids with Jimmy now, Thomas thinks. She thinks Jimmy is silly and vain and, just for tonight, Thomas is inclined to agree. He knows Jimmy had only hit him on accident, but still. Thomas has had enough grief off of Jimmy to last a lifetime.

They're friends now, after a fashion. Thomas still notices the way Jimmy's chest presses against his shirt and how his smile lights up his face, but he tries not to let it matter so much and, sometimes, he succeeds. They play cards together occasionally and smoke outside together and laugh over the foibles of the other servants.

It's not smart, Thomas knows, but he can't seem to help it. Not just because Jimmy is handsome, but because it is nice to have someone to snicker with again. He is in a foul enough mood this evening to admit that he had missed O'Brien, and badly. He hadn't really believed they'd fall out until there was no going back. She had been funny, O'Brien, and, Thomas thinks, almost fond of him. She'd really gone out of her way to help him during the war, and, though it had benefited her too, and he'd been grateful, in his way. She'd looked out for him, he thought, until Alfred came along and she'd had someone more important to pay attention to.

He wishes he could hate Alfred properly, but it was like hating poor, dead William. It just wasn't worthwhile. He would hate him though, if Jimmy was sacked over this business. It didn't seem likely, but you could never be sure. Mr. Carson doesn't like Jimmy. He never has, but, Thomas thinks, he'd disliked him even more since Lord Grantham had promoted him to first footman to keep him quiet about Thomas. Lord Grantham isn't all bad, Thomas supposes, for a toff. He'd been, well, not exactly kind to Thomas, but still…

Anyway, Mr. Carson has never quite forgiven Jimmy over the whole incident, Thomas doesn't think. He'd never say it out loud, but it makes him just the tiniest bit happy. He knows Mr. Carson is mainly angry that Jimmy (tricked into in by O'Brien, of course!) had tried to blackmail him. Sometimes though, Thomas likes to pretend that Mr. Carson's dislike for Jimmy is in part because of what he'd tried to do to Thomas.

Christ, when had he become so pathetic? Had he always been?

He shakes out another cigarette, but, before he can light it, there is a knock on the door. Mr. Carson, Thomas imagines, come to tell Thomas he expects him to be vigilant for any more fights. Well, if there are, Thomas is bloody well keeping out of it. More injuries are the last thing he needs. Annoyed, he puts his cigarettes down. Mr. Carson is always hinting that Thomas shouldn't smoke in his room, though he's never forbidden it outright. Thomas doesn't want to push his luck with the butler any farther.

He glances over to the wooden chair where he'd draped his coat and discarded shirt. He supposes Mr. Carson will disapprove of Thomas opening the door in his undershirt, but it's late and, for once, Thomas can't be bothered to do anything about his appearance.

Sighing again, he pulls open the door to reveal Jimmy, rather than the butler. Surprised, Thomas looks him up and down – he can't help it – and takes in Jimmy's red knuckles and bruised cheek. It looks painful, but not too bad. Of course, Thomas thinks bitterly, when does Jimmy ever look bad? The other man's shirt is open, revealing the undershirt beneath, and it is all Thomas can do to focus on his face. His stomach does a revolting leap and Thomas narrows his eyes. He wishes it had been Mr. Carson, after all.

Jimmy, who seems to take Thomas's ill-concealed appraisal in stride, holds up an open bottle of wine, raises his eyebrows, and nods towards Thomas's room. Without thinking, Thomas moves out of the doorway. "Where did you get that?" he asks.

Jimmy pushes past him and closes the door behind him. "Nicked it," he says sullenly.

"Jimmy, I don't think-" Thomas starts, staring at the closed door, but Jimmy cuts him off.

"I didn't mean to hit you. I'm very sorry. Truly, I am," he says, looking down at the floor.

"'s alright," Thomas says, and it is. "Just a scratch that will be gone in no time."

Jimmy looks up at him. "You came out of it better than me, that's for sure." Jimmy grabs Thomas's only glass, sinks into Thomas's armchair, pours the wine, and reaches out to hand the glass to Thomas, keeping the bottle for himself.

Thomas is still standing by the door. He crosses the room to take the glass from Jimmy and, after a moment's hesitation, sits down on his bed. He can feel Jimmy's eyes on him.

"How are you, then?" Thomas asks. And what are you doing? He wonders. Jimmy hasn't come to his room since Thomas had been stuck in bed after the beating.

Jimmy smiles tightly. "Not out on my ear, yet. Just 'a disgrace to this house, his lordship, and the mother who bore me,' apparently. According to Mr. Carson. And you?"

"Twisted by nature into something foul, according to Mr. Carson," Thomas says. What the fuck had he said that for? He's always saying things he doesn't mean to say around Jimmy, even now.

But Jimmy only laughs. "Well, at least Mr. Carson was holding nature responsible. Whereas I have nothing to blame but my own 'vanity, pride, and insolence' for this 'disgusting and wholly unnecessary display of violence.'"

"I wouldn't worry," Thomas says. "Mr. Carson likes being disgusted. Gives him something to do in his spare time."

Jimmy laughs. "Well, he's not keen on me and never has been and that's a fact."

"I've managed to soldier on," Thomas says, taking a sip of the wine. It's excellent.

"It's different," Jimmy says. "You annoy Mr. Carson like, like a nephew he enjoys scolding or something. He hates me. You should have heard him, 'I shudder to think what would have happened if Mr. Barrow hadn't intervened.'"

Well, Thomas thinks, at least he may have managed to gain some points with Mr. Carson. Doesn't hurt to keep proving the need for an under-butler. "What does he think would have happened if I hadn't stopped you?" Thomas asks, amused.

"Dunno,"Jimmy says, shrugging. "He was sort of overcome by horror at that point. You know how he gets. Maybe he's afraid we would have broken some of his lordship's crockery. God knows how this house would weather such a shock."

Thomas laughs at that. "And Alfred?"

"I told him Alfred started the whole bloody thing, saying stupid things."

"What did Mr. Carson say?" Thomas asks.

Jimmy smirks. "That Alfred would know better than to say something like that again."

Not the reaction Thomas would have imagined. "What did he say?" Thomas asks.

"Alfred?" Jimmy is looking at him suspiciously.

Thomas raises his eyebrows. "He said something and you hit him?" Thomas says, trying to keep his voice neutral.

Jimmy blushes. "It's alright to be surprised. No one knows better than you what a coward I am."

"I don't think-" Thomas starts, but Jimmy waves him off. "Don't need to go defending me. Not with your lip like that. We both know I'm no fighter. I'm lucky you were there and no mistake."

"You were on top," Thomas says. And now you're in my room, he thinks. Why?

"We both know that wouldn't have lasted long," Jimmy says, taking a swig of wine. Thomas, trying not to focus on Jimmy's lips on the rim of the bottle, drains his own glass. "Alfred may be a clod but he's stronger than me. And so are you, come to think of it."

Thomas is curious, now. "What exactly did Alfred-"

"You should ask, Thomas," Jimmy says, cutting Thomas off, his voice low.

"What?" Thomas says.

"You should ask what I'm doing here, Thomas," Jimmy says, still not looking up. "I know you're wondering."

"Right," Thomas says, unnerved. Jimmy never call him Thomas, but, somehow, this doesn't seem the time to correct him. "What are you doing here?"

Jimmy looks up then. His face is scarlet underneath the bruising and his eyes are wide. He stares at Thomas for a long minute and then he stands up, putting the wine bottle on the floor as he does so. Thomas feels as if he is frozen and Jimmy crosses the room to stand in front of him.

"I'm here for exactly the reason you hope I'm here," Jimmy says, his voice quiet.

Thomas looks up at him. A thousand different scenarios cross his mind, each more unlikely than the last.

"Jimmy, I don't-" but he can't seem to find words. The other man is too close and he can't think. Or rather, he can, but all he can think is –

Jimmy reaches out, putting a finger against the cut in Thomas's lip and Thomas can't breathe. Jimmy can't mean…He can't be… This has to stop. This is madness. And suddenly Thomas is annoyed. What is Jimmy playing at? He grabs Jimmy's wrist and pulls his hand away from his, Thomas's, face.

"I don't know what you think," Thomas says, his voice a low hiss. "But-" He expects Jimmy to jump back. To make excuses. To claim Thomas is misunderstanding the situation. Well, Thomas thinks, that last would bloody well be true. He doesn't understand this situation at all.

"I think you were right, after all," Jimmy says, staring at Thomas's hand, still wrapped tightly around Jimmy's wrist.

"Right?" Thomas asks.

"Don't make me say it, Thomas." Jimmy says softly. "It's hard enough without me having to say it."

"Jimmy, I don't know-" Thomas starts again.

"Of course you bloody well know!" Jimmy says, his voice louder and angrier. "I'm sure everyone's fucking talking about it. About why I hit Alfred," Jimmy growls.

"Ivy-" Thomas tries again, still aware of Jimmy's proximity.

"What the fuck's Ivy got to do with it?" Jimmy tries and fails to pull his wrist from Thomas's grasp. Thomas had forgotten he was holding it. He lets go and, to his surprise, Jimmy sits down on the bed beside him. He leans forward, his shoulders shaking. He's laughing.

"Jimmy," Thomas says quietly, "Jimmy, when you fell, did you hit-"

Jimmy shakes his head. "You must think I'm cracking up," he says, not looking at Thomas.

"Well," Thomas says. Yes, he thinks. This is out of character for Jimmy, Thomas thinks. Or, he supposes it is. He's known the other man for two years and yet, somehow, he still can't seem to quite get the measure of him. And that's trouble. "Maybe you should go back to your room and-"

"Mrs. Patmore didn't tell you," Jimmy says looking at Thomas.

"Tell me what, Jimmy?" Thomas asks.

And then, before Thomas can register what is happening, Jimmy is pressing his lips to Thomas's. Thomas has never been more shocked in his life, but his body reacts immediately, even if his brain is far behind. His lip hurts – it might be bleeding again – but who cares? It is wonderful. It is what he has always hoped for. Jimmy's lips on his, Jimmy's tongue in his mouth, Jimmy's body pressed against his. Thomas puts one hand on Jimmy's jaw and his other, his injured hand, just above Jimmy's elbow. He pulls the other man closer. It's too fast, the reasonable part of Thomas's mind says, you'll scare him. But Jimmy moans softly and Thomas can't think anymore. Not about anything but the man beside him and the desire pulsing through his body.

Eventually, Jimmy pulls away and wipes his mouth, staring at Thomas wide-eyed. Just like that, Thomas feels the panic set in. Jimmy's going to leave. Going to go to the police. Going to hit him –

And Jimmy is raising his hand, but it is just to run a finger along Thomas's lower lip. "You're bleeding again," he says in a whisper.

"It doesn't matter," Thomas says, his voice just as quiet. "Jimmy, I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Jimmy says.

Thomas nods. He doesn't know what to say.

"Thomas?" Jimmy says, and Thomas realizes how tired the other man sounds. How late it must be. "It was about you."

"What?"

"What Alfred said. It was about you."

Thomas blinks. He doesn't know what to make of that. He knows what he wants to make of it, but he's not sure that it's altogether wise. "You hit Alfred for saying something about me? Why?" he asks in disbelief.

Jimmy ducks his head, a blush spreading down his neck. Thomas wonders how far down that blush spreads. "Why do you think?" Jimmy mutters.

"I didn't know that you-"

"Well, now you do," say Jimmy collapsing backwards on to the bed with a sigh of frustration. Thomas tries not to think about that. Tries not to think about bulge he'd seen in the front of Jimmy's trousers before he looked away. "And so does everyone else. Mrs. Patmore knows and now she's the proof."

"What?" Thomas asks, deliberately not looking at Jimmy.

"I heard her telling Mrs. Hughes a few months ago there was no need to worry about me being alone with Ivy. She didn't know I was listening in. She said….she said if Mrs. Hughes was 'so idle that she had time to be worrying about staff not under her direct supervision, she might have an eye to all the time that silly flirt spends winding up Thomas and that's the truth of it.'"

"I'm sure Mrs. Patmore meant that I might-" Thomas says, feeling wretched.

"Mrs. Hughes said you'd never make the same mistake twice and Mrs. Patmore just laughed and said that it was me who wouldn't make the same mistake twice. Mrs. Hughes told her to stop being foolish, but she said it. God."

Thomas let out a surprised laugh.

"It's not funny, Thomas. It means we'll be sacked. It means prison. During the war, it meant-"

"They won't say anything, Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes." Thomas cannot believe this conversation is happening. It is as if it is happening to another person. "They knew about me from the start and they never said nothing."

Jimmy sits up, looking at him doubtfully. "I suppose. And Alfred's too stupid to see the nose on his face."

Thomas reaches out for Jimmy's hand. He can't help but be surprised when the other man doesn't flinch away.

"Thomas?" he says. "Just because you were right about me it doesn't mean…I mean, we can't….not right away. I haven't…I just…I need to get used to it, is all." Jimmy finishes awkwardly.

Thomas nods. "Of course," he says softly. "I wouldn't…." he doesn't know how to finish the sentence, but Jimmy seems to take his meaning and nods. Thomas leans towards him and kisses him slowly, carefully. When he pulls away, Jimmy sighs again.

"I'm going to go to sleep," he says. "In my room," he adds quickly.

Thomas nods. "Will this have happened this way tomorrow?" He asks. What a stupid thing to say, he thinks.

"Yes," Jimmy says, ducking his head. "I won't kick up a fuss again. Goodnight, Thomas." His smile is nervous, but it's there. Thomas smiles back.

And then Jimmy's gone. Thomas take a deep breath and looks at his clock. Half an hour. Half an hour was all it took for the world to become a different place. Perhaps, Thomas thinks, the universe does owe him something. Perhaps it means to pay up.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: Jimmy**

Jimmy looks at the clock: 11:30pm. In the daylight, Jimmy is aware enough to know how foolish it is that he had expected everything at Downton to change because of something he'd done. Downton Abbey does not change for the likes of Jimmy Kent. As far as the staff were concerned, a week ago, two footman had had a brawl in the kitchen, as young men sometimes do. The why of it didn't matter. Of course it didn't.

Only, it did. It had somehow seemed so significant to Jimmy and, for an unnerving twelve hours, it had seemed as though everyone else must understand the import. But it had been over a week and they hadn't. Thank God.

It had felt like someone else standing in Mr. Carson's office, shifting from foot to foot. An out of body experience, as if he, Jimmy Kent, had gone through the looking glass and found himself in a whole new world where he was….Any way, Mr. Carson had continued his litany of disapproval the minute the door was shut and, fortunately, Jimmy had had a few minutes to collect himself and try to think of a way to right the situation.

"Well?" Mr. Carson had said, glaring at Alfred. Of course, he looked to Alfred to provide the true story, Jimmy had thought with a flash of bitterness.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson," Alfred said. "I don't know what came over Ji – James. I was putting down the tray like always and were just talking and then he hit me. Couldn't believe it. I-"

"That's a lie and you know it!" Jimmy had interjected. But, looking at Alfred's face, Jimmy had suddenly realized that Alfred didn't know it. He didn't even remember what he'd said. What had Jimmy been playing at, getting so upset over some offhand comment? Only, when he thought of it, he still felt the irrational rage surging through him.

"James?" Mr. Carson asked.

"He…he was saying things he shouldn't. About Mr. Barrow." Jimmy said, looking at the floor. "And Timothy, the hall boy, and I…"

"What sort of things?" Mr. Carson had said, his eyebrows raised so high that it must have been uncomfortable.

Jimmy had been able to feel the blood rushing to his face. "He said that the new hall boy was always jumping to do whatever Mr. Barrow said and that if Mr. Barrow told him to get down on his knees and suc-"

"I see!" Mr. Carson had exclaimed in a quashing tone. Clearly Jimmy was not meant to continue the story.

Jimmy darted a look at Alfred, who looked uncomfortable. "Right," Jimmy had said. "Anyway, I…I didn't think it was right for him to be saying…things like that about the senior staff, Mr. Carson." Jimmy took a deep breath. He had suspected that he'd landed on the version of the story that Mr. Carson would find most sympathetic. "I shouldn't have hit him. I know that, I do. And I'm sorry for it. I just…I didn't think it was Alfred's place to tell lies like that about Mr. Barrow, seeing as how he is the under butler."

"It certainly was not!" Mr. Carson had said.

"I didn't mean to, Mr. Carson," Alfred said hastily. "I wasn't thinkin' and-"

"It is clear to me that "not thinking" is a persistent problem with both of you," Mr. Carson had started in. He'd had a lot more to say about the whole affair, but, in the end, he hadn't been as angry with Jimmy as Jimmy had feared.

Finally, Mr. Carson had dismissed Alfred ("I trust you will spend the rest of the evening contemplating your mistakes!") and motioned to Jimmy to stay.

Jimmy, who had thought that the worst had passed, felt a surge to dread. Surely, this was the part where Mr. Carson accused Jimmy of being…well…overly fond of Thomas.

But Mr. Carson hadn't. He'd stood up, looking uncomfortable, and said "James….I…I trust that Alfred's disgusting comment was simply a revolting joke and not…not based on…"

"Of course it wasn't," Jimmy had said quickly. "Mr. Barrow isn't like that. I mean…he's….but he wouldn't do something like that. Not ever."

Mr. Carson looked relieved. "No, of course not," he'd said. "It was…While I find your methods reprehensible, James, I agree that such talk about Mr. Barrow is wholly unacceptable." And then, with just a few more insults to Jimmy's character, Mr. Carson had allowed him to go.

Jimmy had had known, though, with aching certainty that, even if Mr. Carson didn't, Mrs. Patmore knew that he reason Jimmy had hit Alfred had nothing to do with upholding propriety and defending the honor of the senior staff of Downton Abbey and everything to do with defending Thomas. He'd been sure she'd say something to someone. To everyone. But Thomas (he can't think of him as Mr. Barrow anymore) said not when Jimmy had gone to his room and -

Thomas is a wary thing; Jimmy tells himself that if there was something to worry about with regard to the rest of the staff, Thomas would be worried. Yet, he doesn't seem to be concerned about the rest of the staff. Rather, he seems to be worried about Jimmy. Something they have in common.

Thomas has been shooting Jimmy questioning glances all week and it makes Jimmy want to tear his hair out. He doesn't know what he'd prefer, though. For Thomas to pretend it had never happened? That would be awful. For Thomas to creep into his room and try to kiss him again? The thought makes Jimmy's heart speed up in panic. For Thomas to haul Jimmy into his room? It makes him uncomfortable to remember how he'd imagined it. He'd thought about it one night, lying awake. He imagined walking by Thomas's room and Thomas grabbing his arm, the way he had in the kitchen that day, and pulling him in. Jimmy would shut the door behind him and the other man would press against him, kissing him hard, their hips rubbing together and then….What?

Jimmy thought he knew, more or less, what men did together. Somehow though, he couldn't quite imagine him and Thomas doing any of those things. Though, he thought, embarrassed, he hadn't needed to imagine very much before he was climaxing. It wasn't as if he had never thought about men before; he had on occasion, along with women. It was just that, somehow, it seemed more personal to think about Thomas. He actually knows Thomas. Well, as much as anyone does

There are so many things he wants to know about Thomas, but he doesn't think he can ask. He might tell me, Jimmy thinks. After all, he…well, Jimmy doesn't know if Thomas loves him, really. He wants something from Jimmy, almost certainly. No, he does want something from Jimmy. Jimmy is sure of that – he remembers how tightly Thomas had grabbed his elbow the night last week. How carefully he'd touched his bruised face.

It is just…He doesn't what it is Thomas wants to happen. Sex, certainly. That Jimmy understands. That was how it had been with the Dowager Lady Anstruther. She hadn't been a bad sort, really. And young, for a dowager – somewhere in her forties.

Jimmy had been a hall boy in Lord Anstruther's house before the war, though no one had taken much notice of him. After, when he'd returned, grown up and hoping for work, the butler had taken one long, appraising look at him and had said he'd do nicely.

He remembers Malory Parks, her ladyship's maid, coming down to the servant's hall on his fourth day of work to tell him her ladyship required his presence in the drawing room.

"What for?" he'd asked, alarmed

Miss Parks had just stared at him and so he'd straightened his livery and gone upstairs, where Lady Anstruther – Elizabeth – had been sitting alone. She was beautiful - he'd always thought so- with dark red hair shot through with a few strands of silver and large grey eyes. She was a tall woman, with a commanding and decisive air about her. Not, as the butler had told him, the type who went to pieces when her husband turned up dead during the war.

"It's James?" She had asked him in that smooth, warm voice of hers.

"Jimmy, your ladyship," he'd said quickly.

"Your father was James?" she'd asked kindly.

"Yes. He's dead now, though. He…the war…" He'd babbled. Something about her made him almost forget that she was lady and he a footman. Thinking back, he realizes that that was what she'd intended.

"It took my husband, too," she said softly. "Tippet said you were a hall boy here while he was still alive."

"Yes, your ladyship," he had said quickly. "I was sorry to hear it, your ladyship."

"That's kind of you," she had said, reaching out and squeezing his arm.

And so it had gone. Almost before he knew what was happening, as many nights started with him in her bed as with him in his own. Though, he thought, he'd always woken up in the morning in his own bed. It likely hadn't been right, he thought. Her son, the new Lord Anstruther, was a year or two older than Jimmy and she had seemed part lover, part mother to Jimmy himself.

He hadn't been in love with her, exactly. It was just that, well, eventually, after the thrill of it wore off, he realized that, to her, no matter what, he would always be the handsome footman she paid to do as she said. It had felt…not exactly shameful, but somehow unsavory. He was useful to her and, though she was fond of him, she was fond of him in the way one might be fond of a favorite horse. So, he had decided to use her back. For sex. For favors. For (though he hates to admit it) comfort.

Of course, there had been talk. The other footman made fun of Jimmy endlessly and complained to Tippet, the butler, that Jimmy got special treatment because of his looks. He didn't think they knew, though, not for sure. Not like Miss Parks. He'd liked her, though. She had kept his secrets and looked out for him when she could. He'd been complaining about his lot to her the first time he'd heard about Downton Abbey.

"Well," Miss Parks had said in her matter of fact voice, "if you mean to get on by using your good looks, you can't fault people when they expect you to get on with using them."

He had felt the blood rush to his face and he'd given a very unfootman-like shrug. "I didn't…I mean I don't….that is…I didn't think…"

"That's the trouble with you. Never thinking."

"I'm not stupid, you know," he had said, his voice angry. People were always thinking he was stupid.

Miss Parks had been unfazed by his sudden anger. "I never said you were. Jimmy, you're just a lad and-"

"I'm not!" Jimmy had interrupted. "I fought in the war and-"

"And you haven't any parents to give you advice. I know it's been hard for you," Miss Parks had continued, ignoring his outburst.

Jimmy slumped further. He still hadn't been used to thinking of himself as someone without a family. He had felt like he might cry and cast around for something to say. "Her ladyship has been very kind," he muttered, wishing it was true.

"Oh yes," Parks said disdainfully, "I know all about her ladyship's _kindness_."

Jimmy jerked upwards and looked at her, feeling a surge of panic. "I didn't - It's not as if-" he took a deep breath. "It wasn't my idea," he had said flatly.

"I'm quite sure of that," she had said, reaching out to take his hand. "Jimmy, are you quite happy with this…arrangement?"

"No," he had said quietly.

"Well then, might it be better if you were not to accompany us to France? I have a cousin who has a place in the garden at the Earl of Grantham's country estate. He writes that they're looking for footmen."

And so he'd left. Lady Anstruther had tried to convince him to change his mind, but he wouldn't. She'd shrugged and laughed and run a hand down his chest. "Well then, off with you!" she'd said fondly. No doubt, she now has a lovely young Frenchman waiting on her. He doesn't begrudge her that.

Thomas, though, might be different. Sometimes, it seems like Thomas actually likes him, Jimmy, and not just for his face. Probably not really, though, Jimmy thinks. He'd thought that about Lady Anstruther, at first, and – he can admit it now – it had hurt when he realized it wasn't true. It had been his own fault, of course. He should have known she didn't care who he was or what he was like or…or how he felt about her. He should have known. If he had been older he would have. If he hadn't been so…so lost after his parents died he would have seen…Well anyway, it's done now and he shouldn't complain – months and months of having a beautiful lover and no responsibility for anything to do with her. Worse things could happen.

However, when he'd come to Downton, he'd been determined not to be seen as the "kept pretty boy" he'd come to be known as at Lady Anstruther's. He hadn't thought it would be too difficult – it had been clear to him right away that the Countess of Grantham and her daughters would sooner fly to the moon than take up with a footman. He'd been glad of that. It had been nice to have his loyalties firmly downstairs with his fellow servants. It had been nice not having to pretend to ignore someone's hands lingering on him in hallways or to be forever sneaking out of someone else's room.

Of course, he'd been afraid Thomas would ruin all that. It had been bad enough being seen as her ladyship's bit of fluff. How much worse would it be to be the under butler's fancy boy? At first, he'd thought he could use Thomas's obvious interest in him to get ahead at Downton. But, somehow, that hadn't sat well with Jimmy and then he'd just wanted the other man to keep away. And then, that night Thomas had snuck into his room –

Well, Jimmy doesn't like to think of that either. In fact, he is tired of thinking about anything. He is tired of sitting quietly in his room. And, though he might regret it the next day, he is tired of being alone. He glances over at the clock. 11:47pm. It's late enough for…Well, he's not quite sure what it's late enough for, but he gets out of bed and throws on his dressing gown just the same. Peering down the hall, he can see that Thomas's door is the only one with light under it. Jimmy quietly closes his door behind him and taps softly on Thomas's.

Just as he had the week before, Thomas opens the door, stares at Jimmy for a moment, and then moves aside to let him in. Jimmy closes the door behind him and looks around the room. Thomas's bed is unmade and there is a book open up near the pillow. Jimmy squints to read the title – The Age of Innocence. He doesn't know what to say – what do you say to a man you've kissed?

"I think Lady Edith is reading that, too," he says, just to say something.

Thomas glances at the bed and then back at Jimmy and then nods. "It's a bestseller," he says.

"What's it about?" Jimmy asks, leaning back against the door.

"Americans," Thomas says. He makes a move to walk towards the wooden chair in the corner but, before Jimmy knows what he's doing, he reaches out to grab Thomas's arm.

Thomas turns back to face him, the uneasiness in his face slowly turning into something else. He moves closer to Jimmy until they are nearly touching. Jimmy looks up at Thomas, thoughts muddled and his breathing suddenly quicker. Thomas seems to take this as an invitation, because he carefully bends down to kiss Jimmy. Sometimes, you don't need to say much of anything to a man you've kissed.

_This is a man – a man you're kissing_, Jimmy thinks. But, for now, that part doesn't matter. Jimmy is used to pretending that the things that happen at night behind closed doors never really happened at all. It's not much different, kissing a man. Except, it is, because Thomas smells like cigarettes and pomade and his chin scratches against Jimmy's and his hands feel large on Jimmy's body and…and he's _Thomas_.

Tentatively, Jimmy puts a hand on Thomas's waist and then the other man is leaning closer against him and kissing him harder, just as Jimmy had imagined. One of Thomas's arms is wrapped tight around his waist and the other is at the back of his neck. Jimmy's mind is, for once, mercifully empty of thoughts and his body feels as though it is on fire. Thomas, seeming to increasingly gain confidence, slowly presses their hips together. It is better than Jimmy imagined.


End file.
